by Lauren Rowe
I blame 3 Doors Down, the bastards. “Here Without You” came on just as I was texting with Kat about how depressed Colby is, and the next thing I knew, I was texting Kat she could bring a smile to any man’s face, and then, right after that, hastily pressing the button to call her, stupidly throwing an entire week’s worth of self-imposed Kat-rehab out the fucking window.
“Theresa,” I say, looking at my longtime personal assistant across the room. She’s standing in my kitchen, cataloging a bunch of stuff that’s about to be loaded onto the moving truck out front. “You got any Ibuprofen?”
“Of course.” Theresa rummages into her purse and hands me a couple pills and a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Make it four,” I say.
She hands me two additional pills.
“Thanks.” I swallow the pills and look down at my computer.
“You’ve got a headache?” Theresa asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m a liar. I’m not fine. In fact, I’m a wreck. And I’ve been a fucking wreck all week long, ever since I dragged my sorry, rejected, confused ass out of the hospital and onto the next flight back to L.A. I was so shattered by Kat’s rejection of me that night, so overwhelmed at the bomb she’d dropped on me, I made a decision that very night to quit her once and for all. If she’s my addiction, I thought, then I’ll just send myself to motherfucking rehab.
Of course, I knew it’d be hard to quit a fucking unicorn, especially a unicorn tinged with a delicious streak of evil—a unicorn who happens to be the most exciting and incredible woman I’ve ever been with—a unicorn who sets the gold standard for turning me on—a unicorn who laughs like a dude and thinks like a terrorist and has a sexy little indentation in her chin that drives me wild. But I truly thought I could do it. I’m a fucking Faraday, after all, and, as my dad always used to drill into me, “Faradays never fucking quit.” (Other than when they blow their brains out or drive off a bridge, I guess).
“Josh, sorry to bug you,” Theresa says. A couple movers walk between us holding one of my black leather couches, and she pauses to let them pass before speaking. “The interior designer asked if we could move our consultation at the new house from Wednesday to the following Monday? She’s got a family emergency.”
After six years of running my life, Theresa surely must know what I’m going to say in response to her question. But, okay, I’ll say it anyway. “If I happen to be in town on Monday, I’ll be there,” I reply. “If not, handle it for me. Just make the house look the way I like it—masculine, sleek, expensive, and in good taste—like it popped out of a glossy magazine.”
“Okeedoke,” Theresa says. “Gotcha.”
I look down at my laptop again.
“Just one more thing,” Theresa says.
I look up, annoyed.
“Your cars won’t arrive at the new house until Tuesday at the earliest. So I went ahead and rented you a Ferrari 458 until then. It’ll be sitting in your garage when you arrive in Seattle. Keys on your kitchen counter. I’ve arranged a limo to pick you up from the airport.”
I nod and look back down at my laptop. I have no idea what Theresa just said. I think she said she rented me a Ferrari, but I’m not sure. I can’t think. I can’t track. Shit. I can’t eat or sleep or breathe. I’m losing my fucking mind. Kat, Kat, Kat. She’s all I can think about. I’m drowning in an all-consuming ache. I need to see her. Touch her. Fuck her. Smell her. Bite her. Spank her. I’m dying. I actually think I might literally be dying. This week has been goddamned fucking hell.
“Hey, Miss Rodriguez?” one of the moving guys asks. “Sorry to bug ya, but is this painting—”
“Yes, that’s one of the items that was purchased by the new owner and will stay with the house,” Theresa says, hopping up from her stool with obvious exasperation. “Put that painting down and come with me. I’m gonna show you which artwork stays and which goes again.”
My phone buzzes with an incoming text and I look down.
Kat.
My heart leaps. This is the first time all week Kat’s instigated contact with me.
“Hi, Josh,” Kat writes. “Just finished my doctor’s appointment. Attaching a video of the sonogram. XOXO Kat. P.S. I told Sarah about the baby at lunch and she went to the appointment with me. Sorry. It just slipped out.” She attaches a blushing-face emoji. “P.P.S. I’d strongly advise you NEVER send me into war with any classified information. Oh, and Sarah says she won’t tell Jonas about the baby—she’ll leave that to you. But she says you better tell your brother he’s going to be an uncle soon—because even though Sarah’s not nearly as big a blabbermouth as me (but who is?), she’s still only human.”
I shake my head. It’s so Kat to insist we hold off telling Jonas and Sarah about the pregnancy until after their wedding and then go right ahead and blab about it to Sarah not five minutes later. I press play on the video, still shaking my head, completely annoyed.
“Doctor,” Sarah’s voice says, “will you explain what’s onscreen for the baby’s father?”
My entire body jolts at Sarah’s use of the word “father.” Holy fuck. Sarah’s referring to me.
The doctor explains what’s onscreen, including pointing out a flicker she says is the baby’s heartbeat—what the fuck?—the baby’s got a heartbeat already?—and when the doctor’s finished talking, the camera pans to Kat.
Kat.
Oh my God.
My heart wrenches at the sight of her. She’s lying on an examination table, her blouse pulled up, her golden hair splayed around her head—and her eyes looking as sad and lackluster as I’ve ever seen them. Oh my God. My heart’s absolutely breaking at the pitiful, lonely, tortured look in Kat’s beautiful blue eyes.
Instantly, all the anger I’ve been feeling toward Kat this week evaporates into thin air. I can’t get over how unhappy my gorgeous Party Girl looks—and utterly exhausted, too. Clearly, she’s not well. She’s still hot as hell, of course—she’s Katherine Ulla Morgan, after all—but I’ve never seen Kat look quite so ragged. So vulnerable. So fucking miserable. Even when she was hung-over and functioning on three hours of sleep in Vegas, even when she was scared to death to walk into a bank and impersonate a Ukrainian pimpstress, even when she found out I didn’t tell her about my move to Seattle, Kat never looked quite the way she does in this video.
“Hi, Josh,” Kat says toward the camera, waving half-heartedly. “Well, it looks like our accidental Faraday is a stubborn little thing—surprise, surprise! I guess he or she’s decided they’re not going anywhere, after all.” Emotion overwhelms her all of a sudden. She wipes her eyes. “I’m really sorry, Josh,” Kat says, her voice wobbling.
The video abruptly ends.
I lean back in my chair, my heart exploding with yearning and regret and sympathy. Oh my God. Kat. My Party Girl with a Hyphen. My beautiful unicorn.
The woman I love.
Oh my God, yes. It’s suddenly as obvious to me as the nose on my face: I love Kat. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize it. I love Katherine Ulla Morgan and I can’t live another day without her. I can’t fucking breathe without her. Jesus Fucking Christ. What the fuck have I been doing this whole past week, staying away from the woman I love? I should have been comforting her—taking care of her—telling her we’re in this cluster-fuck of a situation together. I should have been strong enough—compassionate enough—man enough—to tell the voices in my head to shut the fuck up.
I feel like the earth has suddenly broken off its axis and hurtled uncontrollably into space. Oh my God. I love Kat—and I should have been there for her this whole past week while she was dealing with Colby’s injuries and the shit-storm her life’s become, rather than sitting around moping and wallowing in self-pity and fear. Oh my God. I’m such a prick. An immature, self-involved, pussy-ass of a little prick.
I pick up my phone, adrenaline coursing through my body.
“Hi,” Kat says softly, answering after one ring.
“Hi
,” I reply. “I got your video, Kat—I saw the grape.”
Kat exhales. “I’m so sorry, Josh.” She lets out a little yelp.
My heart squeezes. “You have nothing to apologize for,” I say, emotion overwhelming me. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“You? But I’m the one who forgot to take my pill.”
“Kat, so what? Birth control pills aren’t one hundred percent effective in the best-case scenario. So we took a slightly higher risk than I’d originally realized. It was a fucking accident.”
“But you trusted me and I screwed up.”
I scoff. “Who could remember to take a pill with the schedule we were keeping in Vegas? Seriously, Kat, if the situation were reversed, I would have missed a whole week’s worth of pills, I guarantee it.”
Kat lets out a little whimper.
“Whatever the increased odds were after missing one pill, I’m sure I would have taken them in advance, I just wanted to fuck you so goddamned much.”
Kat laughs through tears.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a prick this week—I guess I had some shit to work out.”
“You haven’t been a prick—you’ve just been extremely polite.”
“I made you feel like you’re alone in this, and you’re not.”
Kat sniffles loudly but doesn’t say anything for a long beat. “I thought maybe you were done with me, Josh. I was scared you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Done with you? Are you mad? No fucking way.”
Kat breathes a huge sigh of relief.
“Are you done with me?” I ask, holding my breath.
“No fucking way,” she says. “I’ll never be done with you, Josh. Never.”
My heart lurches like a guard dog on a leash. “So, hey, how ’bout that grape,” I say. “Pretty crazy, huh?”
“Crazy corn chowder,” Kat replies.
“That’s a total Henn-ism, you know.”
“I think that’s where I got it.” She sniffles again.
“Seeing the baby’s heartbeat made everything seem so real,” I say softly.
“Totally,” she agrees. “This shit is real, man.”
“Crazy.”
“You know, it’s so weird,” she says quietly, “but when I saw the heartbeat, I started feeling protective about the grape—like I don’t want anything to happen to it, after all.”
“Immortality through reproduction, remember? It’s evolution, baby.”
“But I’ve never wanted a baby. I don’t even think babies are cute. They just look like tiny old men.”
“Your heart’s answering the call of the wild, babe.”
“But it’s so unlike me.”
“Yeah, I guess we’re both doing things we never thought we’d do, huh?” I pause, hoping Kat will address her soul-crushing rejection of me in the hospital, but she doesn’t. “So, hey, PG,” I say, clearing my throat. “It turns out I’m moving on Wednesday.”
“Yay,” she says.
“I’ve got to see you,” I say, my heart racing. Fuck me. That’s the understatement of the century.
“Shoot,” Kat says. “Wednesday’s not good for me. Colby’s getting out of the hospital and my entire family’s gonna hang out with him. Can we do Thursday?”
“Thursday it is. I’ll text you my new address. Seven o’clock?”
“Great. I can’t wait to see your new house.” She pauses. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Same here. I’ve missed you,” I say. I clutch my chest. Jesus, I can barely breathe.
“Josh, I’ve missed you so much,” she whispers. “I’ve been feeling like I’m dying.”
“Me, too, babe. Exactly. I’ve been in physical pain without you. You have no idea.”
I can hear her smiling over the phone line, even as she sniffles. “Really?”
“Hell yes. I’ve been miserable.”
“Me, too,” she says softly. She sniffles again. “I’ll be counting the minutes until Thursday. And maybe Friday, too? Because... you’ll be living here, so . . ?”
“Yep. Absolutely,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “You’ll be seeing me so much, you’ll get sick of me. I promise.”
Kat sniffles again. “Impossible. I could never get sick of you. Ever.”
My heart squeezes.
“Okay. Well. I gotta go,” Kat says. “I’m gonna hang up and sob my eyes out now.”
“Okay, babe. Have fun. Call me later.”
“I will,” Kat says. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you, too. I miss you so much, babe.”
“I miss you, too—so, so, so, so much.”
“Don’t be sad anymore, Kat. I’m here now—and I’m not going anywhere.”
She starts bawling on the other end of the line and my heart shatters at the sound of her wails.
“It’s okay, baby,” I coo. “I’m right here. Don’t cry, beautiful. I’ll see you really soon.”
“Okay. I gotta go,” she murmurs, obviously still crying. “I’ll call you later after I pull myself together.”
“Wait, baby. Don’t go,” I say. “Don’t leave like this. You’re crying.”
“No, I’m okay. I gotta go. I wanna have an ugly cry on my own.”
“Okay, baby,” I say. “But call me again soon.”
We hang up and I sit, staring at my phone for a long moment. Oh my fucking God. I love her. I love Kat with all my heart and soul. And I’m gonna tell her so on Thursday—the way I should have told her at the hospital if I’d had an ounce of sense.
Kat was absolutely right to turn me down at the hospital. Actually, I never should have proposed in the first place—I know that now. I have no genuine desire to get married—I was just trying to appease the ghost of my father—get his absolution from the grave. But fuck that. My father’s not here to disown me anymore, and even if he were, I’d tell him to fuck off. Okay, fine, I’ve got a hot baby-momma-girlfriend. So fucking what? It’s not the end of the world. We’ll figure it out. The most important thing is that I love her—I know that now. I love Kat. And when I see her on Thursday, I’m gonna tell her exactly how I feel, no holds barred—and I don’t need a fucking ring and the promise of a stupid piece of paper from the government to do it. I’ll tell her straight from my heart and soul. Oh shit. I’ve suddenly got a brilliant idea. Oh my God, I’m a fucking genius. I close my laptop and leap up from the table, a surge of adrenaline flooding me. “I’m going out, T-Rod!” I call to Theresa in the back of the house.
“Hang on,” Theresa’s voice calls from another room.
“Gotta go!” I yell, bounding toward the front door. “I’ve got something important to do!”
“Hang on a sec,” Theresa says, entering the room breathlessly. She’s holding a cardboard box.
“Sorry, T-Rod,” I say, striding toward the front door. “I’ve got something I’ve got to do.”
“Just take a quick peek at this stuff, Josh.” She holds up the box. “The movers were about to load this stuff onto the truck and I thought you might want to pull a few things out to take with you on Wednesday.”
“No. Whatever that stuff is, they can load it onto the truck.”
“But the truck’s gonna take four or five days to get to Seattle. Is there anything here you want to have with you the first night in your new house—you know, something to make it feel like home on your first night there?”
I’m exasperated. A house is just a house, for fuck’s sake—there’s no such thing as a home. But, fine. Anything to make Theresa happy. I peek inside the box and half-heartedly rummage through its contents for half a second. “Nope. Nothing I care—” I shut my mouth. Oh. Yep. There’s one thing I care about. A whole lot, in fact. I pull it out reverently. “Just this,” I say. I run my fingertip over the three smiling faces gazing back at me from the framed photo. “Don’t let them load this onto the truck—I’ll take it with me in my bag.”
Theresa nods. “I’ll put it into your carry-on—inside pocket.
Don’t forget it’s there, okay? You don’t want it to break.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
I turn toward the front door again. “Hey, T-Rod,” I say, turning back around to face her. Why don’t you give yourself a raise? Maybe, I dunno, twenty-five percent?”
Theresa smiles. “Thank you. Very generous of you.”
“And, hey, can you do something for me?”
“It’s my reason for living, Josh.”
“Arrange a romantic dinner-for-two at my new place in Seattle for Thursday night. Seven o’clock. I’m talking a top-rated chef, a waiter in a tux, flowers everywhere, candles all over the place—the whole nine yards. You know, a five-star-dining experience, but right in my own dining room.”
“No problem. But the truck won’t be there with your furniture until Saturday. I’ll have to rent some furniture for the night—at least a table and chairs.”
“Great. And as long as you’re renting stuff, would you rent me a pool table for a couple nights? I might wanna play pool before my table arrives—it always helps me relax.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and rent me a really comfortable bed for Thursday night—a really nice one. Pillow-top mattress. Silk sheets. You know, the whole nine yards.”
“Josh, just a little tip: you never need to say the phrase ‘the whole nine yards’ to me. I know when it comes to you there are only two gears in everything you do: zero and ‘the whole nine yards.’”
I laugh.
“Speaking of which, what do you think about a violinist to play during dinner?”
“Ooh. I like that. Do it.”
“I’ll set it up,” Theresa says.
“Just do whatever you have to do to make me look really good, T.”
“Don’t I always, Josh? Speaking of which, I just bought you three new Anthony Franco suits from his new collection, already tailored to fit you to a tee. Do you want them loaded onto the truck or sent in a garment bag with you on the plane?”
“Is one of them blue, by any chance?”